I’m sure I could count my age on
\nthe fingers of one hand:
\nour landlord’s son, a fighter pilot
\nhome on furlough, and a buddy
\ntook my young sister and me
\nout of town to spend a weekend
\nat his family cottage
\nwhich crouched on high rocks
\nover a deep dark lake.<\/p>\n
My mother may have been there;
\nI can’t recall \u2014 probably she was,
\nbut I can’t picture her there.
\nI remember going out fishing in
\nthe cedarstrip motorboat,
\nand I remember the overpowering
\nsmell of gasoline and naptha lanterns
\nand kerosene and flytox sprays.
\nWe caught two large pickerel
\nwhich he fried for breakfast
\n— I had never had fish
\nfor breakfast before.
\nHe dipped them in batter
\nand fried them in a black iron skillet.<\/p>\n
Those were the main fish against which
\nall fish meals compare. Gordie was wearing
\nhis air force turtle-neck and navy pants.
\nHis bespectacled buddy wore a gray
\nsweatshirt and blue dungarees.
\nMainly I remember the fish
\nand the times I have spent remembering
\nthe fish: golden, steaming, delicious.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I’m sure I could count my age on the fingers of one hand: our landlord’s son, a fighter pilot home on furlough, and a buddy took my young sister and me out of town to spend a weekend at his … Continue reading